


A Kiss with a Fist is Better than

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Fights, M/M, Violent Thoughts, Waiting Rooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a few months after the JVC performance, after he’s too far into it, too late to back out, that Andrew has a striking realization: Fletcher did not fight back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss with a Fist is Better than

**Author's Note:**

> I tried very hard to keep this under 1k I TRIED. But I failed. Title is from Florence + the Machine's "A Kiss with a Fist" which I have been wanting to reference forever for Whiplash because it fits it very well, in my opinion.
> 
> Warning: there's some rather violent imagery. I'm morbid, I guess. Also there's canon-typical offensive language.

Andrew often has vivid thoughts about hurting Fletcher. Ones about seriously injuring him — fatally, even.  Violent, intrusive thoughts whizz through his mind, like, _I wonder what would happen if I stabbed drumsticks in his eyes_ or _next time we’re in the subway I should push him on the tracks._

In a way he’s disturbed by how much he enjoys it, but then again, he’s sure that Fletcher’s imagination of torturing him is much more inspired.

Fletcher’s apartment; 2:18 AM; drum set; Fletcher yells, “Are you even listening to yourself?  I'm reveling in your failure.  Play it again!”

Andrew envisions shoving Fletcher’s hand into a blender and turning it on full speed, he thinks of how blood would splatter everywhere and the crunch of bones and how Fletcher would shriek in pain—

But his thoughts betray nothing — he stares blankly ahead, says, “Yes, sir,” and complies, starts up the rhythm again, better this time.

Andrew inflicted physical pain on Fletcher, once. He recalls tackling Fletcher full force, the echoing smack of Fletcher’s back hitting the floor (how it had pleased him when he had found that Fletcher had ended up with two cracked ribs — Andrew hoped that it caused him pain for weeks), how visceral and primal it was attacking him.

It wasn’t enough to satisfy Andrew’s needs, but enough to foster grander desires. 

It’s a few months after the JVC performance, after he’s too far into it, too late to back out, that Andrew has a striking realization: Fletcher did not fight back.

Andrew had tried to beat him bloody, and Fletcher had just lain there, pathetically covering his face with his hands. Sure, Fletcher’s idleness was probably due to shock, but still.  He didn’t fight back. Andrew thinks of it for days, an endless cycle: he didn’t fight back he didn’t fight back he didn’t fight back. 

Maybe his bark is worse than his bite — one of those _really_ loud scary barks that warns everyone away.  Maybe there’s a nip at calves when he’s really pissed off.

That, Andrew can definitely handle.

Andrew hates Fletcher, he hates how he pries what he wants out of him, like he’s forcing his hands in and cracking his ribcage open, scooping out vital bits he wants, leaving nothing that Andrew can keep for himself.  Andrew hates how Fletcher can use and abuse him without a care to his well-being. Andrew hates that he _lets_ Fletcher do it, because he can’t see purpose to living without him, he hates how he’ll do anything to be graced with the bare minimum of Fletcher’s praise.  Andrew hates how much he _wants_ him, will take him however he offers. 

Andrew hates _himself_ for much he loves his life now.

He needs to do something to get rid of this pent up aggression for Fletcher, or else it’ll consume him.

After Andrew decides to do it, he lays in wait for an opportunity to be provoked into an outburst — he wants his violence to be a consequence of Fletcher’s action.

It takes approximately one day.

Andrew doesn’t even remember what Fletcher was bitching at him about — same old, same old.  All he knows that it was a chance, so Andrew took it. 

Fletcher’s talking, he talks so damn much he loves to hear himself talk, but it’s muffled by the blood pounding in Andrew’s ears.

Andrew plans it out.  The old fucker isn’t even expecting it.  Andrew bolts up from the drum stool, bulks up his shoulders and charges toward Fletcher, driving into him as he takes him down to the floor.

It’s just as wonderful as he expected. There’s a whoosh of the-wind-knocked-out-of-him air from Fletcher against Andrew’s ear, a grunt of pain that makes Andrew giddy, and the shifting balance of Andrew overtaking Fletcher.

“Andrew!” Fletcher says, and blocks his face when Andrew throws a punch.  “What is _wrong_ with you, are you fucking possessed?”

“I’ll fucking murder you!” Andrew yells, scuffling to keep on top of Fletcher, stay in control of this — Fletcher is putting up a struggle, which, fantastic, even better, maybe he’ll fight back this time.

He doesn’t.

The fight goes all of one minute before Fletcher shoves Andrew off of him.  Both of them clamber to a standing position, breathing hard — Fletcher’s lip is bloody, Andrew sees with delight. 

Andrew is sure Fletcher is going to give him the beating of a century for his retaliation.  He can’t wait.

 _Please fucking hit me,_ he begs, but does say.

“Got that out of your system?” Fletcher asks.

Andrew doesn’t respond.  There could never be enough.

Fletcher’s eyes narrow, wipes at his mouth, glares at the smeared blood on the back of his hand.  “Well, you better.  Because that’s as much as a fuck-tumble you’ll ever get from me, you goddamn faggot. Now sit down and—”

Andrew head-butts Fletcher.  Or at least, that’s his intention.  Except he forgets the very important detail that he’s actually taller than Fletcher. 

Because of this, Andrew miscalculates the angle of the onslaught, and he slams his head forward, promptly smacking the bridge of his nose into Fletcher’s forehead, instead of the other way around.

Andrew looks at Fletcher, confused, because shouldn’t Fletcher be the one who feels like his brain is vibrating in his skull, and not him?

Fletcher looks at Andrew, tilts his head, utterly perplexed, like _well that’s new._

“Fuck,” Andrew sputters, spitting blood that’s running out his nose and into his mouth, and he wishes his concussion-rattled brain had the capability to work how to sit down because he knows that Fletcher won’t catch him as he falls to the ground and passes out.

 

* * *

 

Fletcher takes Andrew to the emergency room, begrudgingly. 

“I’ll tell you, Andrew, you’ve achieved a new level of stupid.” 

Andrew groans from behind the blood-soaked towel, and slouches lower in the plastic seat.  He’s in too much pain to defend himself.  Plus, it’s kind of hard to argue with Fletcher when he’s right. Only an idiot would break his own nose while trying to break someone else’s.

“Shut up.  You deserve to suffer.”  Fletcher looks to his side at Andrew.  He adds, “Serves you right for trying to injure me.”

Andrew wonders how much longer he has to wait before he’s called back to be seen by a doctor.  They’ve been stuck in the waiting room since Andrew got bumped down the priority list because his injury isn’t “life threatening” (Fletcher yelling at the receptionist probably didn’t help, either), and he just wants to go home because the hospital is weird in the middle of the night and Fletcher is being more insufferable than usual.

He’d rather still be unconscious on Fletcher’s living room floor.

Fletcher heaves a sigh at the clipboard in his hands. “When’s your birthday?”

“August 2, 1994.”  Andrew puts the towel in his lap — his nose has stopped bleeding, it seems, even though it still hurts like a motherfucker — and leans over and looks at the patient information sheet that Fletcher is filling out for him. “Hey!  I don’t have a history of mental illness!”

“Undiagnosed.” 

“And I can _see_ where you wrote _dumbass_ as my middle name.”

“I scratched it out.”  Fletcher clicks the pen in a rhythm of four. “What is your middle name, anyway?”

Andrew can’t help but be devastated that Fletcher doesn’t know his middle name.  It’s not a total surprise — Fletcher doesn’t go out of his way to know Andrew beyond what he needs to know to shape him into his prized musician — but still.

It’d be nice. 

Andrew scowls.  It hurts his face.

However, his expression lifts when Fletcher writes himself as his emergency contact.  Who else could it be?  Fletcher is the most significant person in his life.

At the _relationship to patient_ section, Fletcher pauses.  Andrew anticipates what he’ll put — mentor? family?  jazz tyrant?  friend? tormentor? partner?

Fletcher leaves it blank. 

How does Andrew categorize Fletcher in his life? 

 _Necessary evil,_ his mind supplies. 

“Why don’t you fight back?” Andrew asks. “I know you could. You’ve hit me before.”

Fletcher’s eyes catch the florescent light of the waiting room when he turns to Andrew, gleaming a harsh spectrum of blues. His mouth turns up into a half-grin, and he has that special look that he reserves only for Andrew — a mix of disapproval and pity and annoyance and a sliver of adoration and an overreaching air of ownership. 

“I don’t have to,” Fletcher simply says, and he gently pats the side of Andrew’s face.

It’s not long before the almost affectionate gesture is replaced with a more familiar one; it’s almost a relief when Fletcher flicks Andrew’s ear and tells him that he shouldn’t worry, because his nose couldn’t get any uglier than it already was.

It’s then that Andrew gets his answer. Fletcher doesn’t have to fight back because it’s not _really_ a fight. It never was, never will be. How can it be, when Fletcher is always predestined to win?

Andrew is relieved, among other things — at least he knows where they stand.

**Author's Note:**

> yes I got the head-butt idea from _Starter for 10_. Andrew Neiman is a disaster, someone help him


End file.
